


Steel

by lttledcve, spinncr



Series: Jaime, First of His Name [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (past) - Freeform, F/M, betrothal, king jaime, mention of incest, sansa learns about the lannisters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-29 11:06:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15071870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lttledcve/pseuds/lttledcve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: A week prior to King Jaime’s wedding to Sansa Stark, Cersei returns to King’s Landing, with her husband, Stannis, determined to reclaim Jaime as her one true love. Jaime is left to explain Cersei’s actions to his betrothed.Sansa, who has spent two years in King’s Landing learning her duties as the future Queen of Westeros, and learning her betrothed, must come to terms with with the realization that she cannot control Jaime, not as her king, and not as her husband.Jaime disagrees.





	Steel

 

Sansa’s smile is nothing short of serene as Cersei Baratheon embraces her twin, placing a soft, lingering kiss to Jaime’s cheek. It’s the first time he’s seen her in years, since he announced his betrothal, actually, and… he hadn’t expected to feel like this with his sister in his arms again.    


He feels fear.    


The last time he held her, she’d been naked in his bed, and had taken his inability to see her off the next morning as a personal insult. Truth be told, he’d meant it as such. He’d hated seeing her in Stannis’ severe gowns, hated the dark haired children she’d paraded before him. Only one had the Lannister look, the youngest, and Cersei would not let him hold her. He could’ve demanded that right, as king, but even then, he’d had trouble denying her.    


He wonders if that has changed since then.    


She finally pulls away, holding his face in her hands. It is an intimate embrace, and she knows it. Sansa looks on, so serene, a softly pleased expression on her face, one she’d maintained all morning.    


“Brother. My dear Jaime, how sweet it is to be reunited.”    


“Your Grace.”

Both siblings turn to look at Jaime’s betrothed. Cersei has arched one elegant eyebrow. He has a vivid flash of memory, of watching naked from her bed in horror as she plucked her eyebrow hairs, one by one, to keep the shape pleasing. “Doesn’t that hurt?” he had asked in bewilderment. “As it should,” she’d answered.    


“You should refer to your king with respect,” Sansa continues, tranquilly. “The proper honorific is Your Grace.”    


Cersei’s face transforms from its painstakingly beautiful mask, to something horrific ugly in the span of seconds. He remembers how ferocious she had always been, and how badly it made him want her.    


Sansa, in this moment, seems ferocious.    


“Who is this little girl, Jaime?” Cersei asks him, letting her arms drift down to his elbows, though she does not allow for any space between them. He makes that space, stepping backward and toward his betrothed. She is, after all, the reason Cersei is here. Their wedding is in but one week.    


“Lady Baratheon,” he says, his voice a shade colder than it had been upon their initial greeting. “Meet the Lady Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. She is my betrothed.” As you very well know.    


Cersei drops into what is possibly the most shallow curtsy yet to be seen by King’s Landing, and a smile as serene as Sansa’s. Jaime has the horrifying thought that should he leave these two women together alone in a room, he’s not certain at all who, if either of them, would come out alive.    


“Lady Mormont, will you please see Lady Baratheon to her chambers? She looks dreadfully tired from her journey. I’m sure she could use a lovely afternoon lie-in before her welcome feast. “Enjoy your rest, my Lady. Your Grace, Margaery has informed me the royal gardens are in peak bloom. Perhaps I could tempt you into a walk?”   


Jaime looks at Sansa, and looks at her, and wonders if he has ever truly seen her before now. Cersei certainly hadn’t expected a little girl to have such steel in her. Even Jaime can admit, the look on her face is amusing. He quirks a quizzical smile at his betrothed, amused and still a bit fearful, though perhaps of her rather than his twin, now.    


“I would be honored, Lady Stark. Lady Baratheon, please, make yourself at home. We look forward to your presence at tonight’s feast.”

****

 

The whispers of the King and his twin sister have not escaped her, and Sansa has learned to listen to the voices who seek to warn her – counsel her – without relying solely on their words alone. It’s a lesson Lord Baelish has taught her, and it’s one that has served her well.

Its why the Raven which had been sent to announce Lord and Lady Baratheon’s impending visit for the Royal Wedding is met not only with a nervousness in her belly that Sansa isn’t willing to admit, but curiosity. The rumors are from multiple sources this time, and even if she knows that it is likely true, and that she has no reason to expect a King to remain loyal to a wife, she wants proof.

Another lesson her years in King’s Landing have taught her.

Lady Cersei Baratheon does not disappoint, and Sansa schools her expression not to break. But the familiarity with which the siblings stand and touch is too potent to ignore. She can’t comment on it now, she can’t bring shame to the King, not only due to loyalty as a subject and a betrothed, but…Out of a fondness too.

That fondness doesn’t stop her from reminding Cersei of the proper way she should address her brother- how she should recognize the respect his title demands. The respect King Jaime Lannister has  _ earned. _

The shallow curtsy is met as Sansa gracefully sinks low, her head tilted downwards. She is no Queen yet, and the Lady Margaery has whispered that there is a power in using honeyed words.

Sansa thinks she means to kill people with kindness.

Her true question is burning on the tip of her tongue now that the blonde lioness has been effectively dismissed, but Sansa isn’t sure how to broach it, as she loops her arm through the King’s offered one. There’s a limit to her boldness, and she’s not quite sure on how to ask her question in polite terms.

Perhaps because it isn’t a polite question.

“Margaery was right,” Sansa breathes instead, her hand reaching out to touch a beautiful rose that has come into full bloom. But she doesn’t examine the flower for long, not when Jaime hasn’t given much of an inclination of where his head is at since they’ve left the throne room in the Red Keep. “Your Grace?”

 

 

It’s poor decorum, he knows, to let the silence sweep over them. By all accounts, it’s a lovely day, and his betrothed is on his arm, and they are surrounded by beautiful blooms. He shouldn’t feel as he does.

Though, if asked, he wouldn’t be able to summarize it, himself. There is longing there, to become better acquainted with his sister’s new wrinkles, to run his fingers through the blonde locks he knows so well in search of silver. To breathe her in and smell  _ home.  _

Only she stopped smelling of the Rock decades ago, and she’d be outraged to learn he didn’t want to pretend her gray hairs weren’t there. She wasn’t his, not anymore. 

There’s also fear. In the years of their betrothal, he’s come to care for Sansa, greatly. She’s of a brilliant mind, and yet also kind and compassionate. He  _ wants _ to marry her. Will Cersei rip their budding relationship apart? 

There’s anger, too. How dare she come here and treat him this way? Treat  _ Sansa _ , her future queen, this way? While he’s been holding the realm together by the skin of his teeth and his betrothed’s way with the small folk, by all accounts Cersei did nothing in the Stormlands. She didn’t hear her people’s complaints, she didn’t host the great families, she  _ moped _ and  _ pouted _ and bemoaned what her life should have been. 

He realizes abruptly that Sansa has been attempting to converse with him, and flushes. “My apologies, Sansa,” he murmurs, resting his free hand atop hers where it sits on his elbow. He’s taken to calling her by her given name, a liberty, no doubt, but one he is not overly repentant for. It’s a beautiful name, and suits her so well. Warm in a way that  _ Lady Stark _ simply is not, warm like  _ wife _ . “I’m troubled by—“  _ my sister _ , “Lady Baratheon’s behavior, in truth.” He stops and withdraws a small knife, cutting free a rose and clipping its thorns carefully, before handing it to the woman who will shortly be his wife, his queen. 

“You were quite formidable, you know. I hadn’t quite realized,” he admits in a quiet voice just for them. He remembers how poised she was as she knocked Cersei down a peg and wants to kiss her, perhaps. He’s always been attracted to competent women. Or perhaps more accurately, to  _ intimidating _ women. When had the little child of Ned Stark, the daughter of the North, become so ferocious? 

 

 

Her husband-to-be seems very lost in thought, and another lady might have been insulted – should have been maybe, based upon the rumored history between a betrothed and another woman.

It does bother her, Sansa realizes, but not in the way she should have expected, and certainly not in the way it would have bothered her parents. She isn’t disgusted, nor affronted…but instead, a small burning of  _ jealousy  _ sits in her stomach.

She cares for the King, more than she’s willing to admit, and more than she’s ever expected. But Kings make for a different kind of husband, and she has no right to demand information. Jaime will share what he is willing to when he is ready.

Or perhaps she’ll nudge a bit more when the timing is right.

Her given name rolls off his tongue in a way that only the King seems capable of, and Sansa is smiling despite the impropriety of it all. It’s only in these moments, and they’ve been intended to marry each other for long enough. Besides, her answering smile is brighter than the slight flush in her cheeks, though it slowly begins to fade at his words as she graciously accepts the gift of one of the very flowers she had been admiring. “Perhaps old habits die hard, Your Grace. I’m sure Lady Baratheon meant you no true slight.”

No, the slight was hers to own, Sansa is sure of it.

The look he’s giving her is new though, and Sansa studies him curiously, trying to place it. But rather than shrink and stammer at the praise, it only helps her confidence. She has become stronger in King’s Landing. She has become stronger in part, because of him. “I’m a Stark, it’s in my blood,”she finally replies. And while she might not look the part she knows the strength belongs to her family, comes from them. She also learns, and while she may not be the fastest pupil, it’s true. And the players in King’s Landing have proven to be some of the best teachers. Squeezing his arm, she speaks a bit more freely. “I aim to be an  **asset** to you, Your Grace. Not a liability.”

 

 

Jaime laughs, because no, no Cersei did not mean  _ him _ any slight. It’s an ugly sound, so he cuts it off abruptly. He hates that Cersei has done this to him, to  _ them _ , hates that he is looking at Sansa at the same time he’s remembering slipping inside his twin. Hates that the thought of it still makes him warm. She shouldn’t have come. 

Sansa, though… she’s a shot of light cutting through what could quickly become a dreary downward spiral. It wouldn’t be the first time Cersei has rendered him thus, but now, it seems, unwittingly, his fiancée has given him something to hold onto. If she, not a child, but only just, can look his sister in the eye and calmly deliver her back to her place, Jaime can certainly muster up the will. He is King, and perhaps it’s time to make that clear to his sister. Sansa will be his strength. Sansa will be his steel. 

“Sansa, sweetling, I think perhaps you already are,” he admits, aiming for lighthearted, but the sincerity of the words gets the better of him. “I won’t allow her to speak that way to you. You are to be her Queen,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “You deserve her utmost respect.” He doubts she’ll get it, if only because what Cersei has in pride, and perhaps even cleverness, she lacks in common sense. 

 

 

His laugh is jarring, not at all like the light-hearted one he has when truly amused, and Sansa isn’t sure what to make of it. If he needs a moment to compose himself, she’s more than happy to grant him that respite, and she even takes to looking at the rose she’s holding in her hand as to give him some sort of privacy.

In fact, everything about how the King is reacting is confusing to her. What she had just seen in the siblings’ reunion served as enough to reassure her that there is some truth to the whispers…but the King’s reaction isn’t at all of someone who is gleeful at their lover’s return. Instead she can’t place his emotions, his mood seems to be shifting quite rapidly. No, it’s not a card she had been expecting to be placed in the board- but making sure that she navigates this properly as a Queen has become less of a priority.

There’s too much concern for  _ him  _ and there isn’t much room for anything else.

“Only  _ perhaps _ ,” Sansa quips teasingly a much more genuine and private smile gracing her features as she looks up at him. “I’m not afraid of her words, Your Grace, they don’t bother me.” With her impending arrival there had been a few…less forgiving songs about the Lannister Lioness sung throughout the corridors, and Shae was never one to keep her true opinions to herself once they were alone in her chambers. She won’t cower before the blonde lady.

But he’s standing closer to her, speaking so softly that the entire atmosphere seems to shift, and Sansa isn’t quite convinced he can’t hear her heartbeat which is thundering in her ears. Her hand rests on his chest hesitantly, it’s more familiar than she’s been after all, and her voice drops to match his volume. “ _ You  _ deserve her utmost respect, Jaime.” It’s the first time she’s spoken his given name aloud, and it feels foreign but comfortable all at once rolling off her tongue. She means it too, because for all of the show that Cersei Baratheon has put on in the throne room of her love for her brother, she has disrespected him too - unabashedly.

Sansa finds that she’s only too happy to remind the lady of her place.

****

 

She says his name, his given name, not all the pompous bullshit titles hurled at him like so much artillery. His  _ name.  _ It’s sounds so sweet on her lips, cautious and careful and  _ caring,  _ he almost forgets what they speak of. He wonders if her hand can feel the way his heart races beneath its touch. He’s a grown man, middle-aged at best, and yet his heart races like a stable boy’s. 

“You should be,” he finally says, voice still but a breath. This is more important than this  _ thing _ stretching between them, though a wry voice in the far reaches of his head—one that sounds much too similar to Tyrion for his comfort—can’t help to remark on how well this bodes for his impending marriage. “Her words are dangerous, and have brought down more than one man.” Had his father not sent her way so many years ago, he has no doubt they would’ve brought down  _ him.  _

His hand comes to rest atop the small, milky-white palm on his chest. He doesn’t want to think of his sister, doesn’t want to be stirred by those memories, not when the promise of more is right here, in his arms. He’s had more women than just his sister, but none that had mattered, none that he had  _ wanted.  _

He wanted this woman with a startling potency. 

“Sansa,” he murmurs, leaning close. He can smell the lemons in her hair, see the way the sun shimmers in her eyes. He’s never been so entranced, not even by his twin. 

**_s a n s a:_ **

Should she be? His words give Sansa pause, as she weighs them carefully. The King has given her no reason not to, and she can admit freely that they do work better together with proper communication. But a part of her wonders if he can see his sister for what she truly is.

Sansa Stark may not fear Cersei Baratheon’s words, but she won’t be a fool. Cersei isn’t one to be brushed aside of taken lightly, and if she had taken away anything from the stories shared by those in her confidence it was that the King’s twin ought to be taken very seriously. She’s told Cersei plays the ‘great game’ well, perhaps better than any before her, and if Sansa can get her way she will try to outmaneuver any attempt made.

Before the Old Gods and New, of whichever faith Jaime believed in or both, Sansa would make a silent oath of her own to do her best to protect her betrothed and his kingdom. It was what a Queen would do.

Blue eyes flicker to green as she hears her name again, and instinctually her body is moving closer to his.  _ He wants to kiss me _ , she thinks suddenly, and the thought both thrills and terrifies her at the same time. Even so, she’s leaning towards him, rising up ever so slightly so that all she has to do is brush her lips gently against his-

A sudden rustling of leaves due to a small breeze reminds her of where they are standing – and of what she was about to do, and she sinks back onto the flat of her feet. Mere moments ago, he had been in a nearly identical embrace with his sister, the intimacy on full display for those who had gathered for the arrival of House Baratheon.

She is not Cersei, and the amount of hurt that flares up at the idea of her merely being a replacement startles her.

“I fear I have distracted you, Your Grace. If anyone gives you trouble, please send them my way so I may give them my sincerest apologies.” 

 

 

The desire throbbing between them is so tangible, for a moment Jaime thinks he can taste it on his tongue, wonders if it’s just her he’s tasting, about to taste, has tasted every day of his life in preparation for this moment— And he  _ wants _ like he can’t remember having ever wanted before,  what’s more  _ he can have her— _

And then she’s gone, and the absence is so jarring that it feels like she’s stolen the air from his lungs, left his chest empty with wanting for her. He nearly reaches for her, before he spies her face, and realizes that it is exactly that which he had expected to see when Cersei kissed him earlier. 

His gut falls through the stone laid beneath his feet, and he closes his eyes, indulges himself just a moment in feeling the loss of her, another thing robbed from him by Cersei, and then desperately tries to reel all of the scattered pieces of himself back in. He’s a king, not a stable boy throwing his heart at every passing farmgirl.  _ Sansa is no farmgirl,  _ he reminds himself, and the game they play is much deadlier than that. He’ll have to face it eventually. 

“You are never a distraction, Lady Stark,” he says, the words sincerely meant, yet coming off stiffly, overly formal. He can’t bring himself to breathe her given name so soon after such a thorough rejection. “No one would dare give me trouble about it, anyway,” he says, and the distance between them seems to stretch like the Sunset Sea. He hates it, and he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Please,” he says finally. “Let us walk a little longer.”

 

 

For a moment, Sansa really lets herself believe the dream – the fairytale. That her soon to be lord husband wants her,  _ loves _ her, and for moment…she has everything she has ever wanted. Jaime’s face is the picture of what she could have imagined a man in love with his lady wife would look like, and Gods, she wants to make him so happy.

Life is not a song, and stories don’t always end the way readers what them to.

Reality quickly sinks in, and she’s not the lady who owns his heart. If the rumors have more truth to them than she’s willing to consider, Sansa suspects that it would have been true for a very long time. While there may be a certain fondness between them, it’s hard to forget Lord Baelish’s whispers of convenience, and the knowledge that their marriage would bring the King quite a lot.

The use of her formal title stings, but it’s appropriate. Their indulgences if overheard could be seen to be something it’s not. If how it affects her is written across her face at all it’s quickly schooled away as Sansa tries to find the pleasant-ness that had been there only minutes ago. But the moment is gone and Cersei Baratheon is still in King’s Landing.

Kings make for a different kind of husband, her mother’s words echo in her mind and while she has no right to demand anything from her betrothed she refuses to become a naïve fool in front of their kingdom, a jape as those around her make jokes they believe to go over her head.

If she must suffer her husband sharing his bed with his sister, she will do so with the dignity that befits the station he is gifting her.

And even still, she doesn’t want to unduly  _ hurt him. _ Maybe that’s why she hesitates to bring it up, even after her arm is linked through his, and their walk has resumed. Pretending that the situation doesn’t exist however, won’t solve anything. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Your Grace.” Her voice is soft in volume, but it doesn’t waver. “I’ve arranged for the Lady Baratheon and her family to stay in the larger apartments above the kitchen keep, but if you would prefer, I could have one of the royal apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast prepared and ready prior to the feast.”

 

 

She says nothing, but deigns to allow him his walk. He wonders if she wears regality like a cloak, or if it’s in her bones. If he dug beneath her surface would he find someone else? Or simply unearth a true Queen, someone destined by the Seven to rule, while he only gave it his best efforts and fell short all the same. There’s a strange moment of envy caught up in pride, and he wonders if he has any right to be proud of her, for surely, despite the time they’ve spent together they past years, he has little to do with the woman she has become, or the Queen she will be. 

The Queen he’s beginning to see she already is. 

He’s deep in his ponderings, so her innocently worded question catches him off-guard. The last thing he wants is closer proximity to Cersei, not merely because she’s a disaster waiting to happen, but because he’s never been able to sort through his thoughts peaceably when she’s around, and he finds that’s something he yearns for now more than ever. Cersei never gave him room to think, kept him from his thoughts like the jealous lover she was, so bent on having all of him that even  _ he _ was competitor for his attention in her eyes. 

And then her meaning comes through, and the very same thoughts he had yearned to sort through shudder to a halt and melt through the cracks in her mind, because surely she’s not asking—

He stops and turns her to face him, looking her intently in the eye. She is. She’s asking exactly that. She could have him deposed, he realizes, as a foggy numbness rolls over him. Would that be so bad? Perhaps he could escape and live in exile, rather than spent the rest of eternity rotting atop a pike on the walls of the keep he currently presides over. He feels nauseous, feels betrayed, though he can’t immediately see how. He had after all, spent his entire adolescence fucking his sister whenever he got the chance. 

But even as his mind spirals forth trying and failing to come up with contingency plans—foresight had always been the purview of his siblings, never him—he realizes she’s not accusing him, or blackmailing him. Not yet. 

“I think Cersei will survive without royal accommodations, Sansa,” he says, but his voice is mechanical, her name on his lips not said with affection, but a censored sort of fear. He’d thought, mere moments ago, this was a woman he could come to love, and realized like a swallowed stone, this was a woman who could see him dead. 

 

 

She’s taken a gamble, a big one, and Sansa knows it. Not only has she questioned her betrothed, her  _ King _ , but she’s questioned him on something many would consider to be a sin worthy of questioning his claim to the throne. And with the title Usurper added to Kingslayer, her giving any weight to rumors, or even discussing it with him is dangerous. The risk is necessary though, Sansa thinks. They’ve kept the lines of communication open ever since she was a child and their wedding is a mere week away.

If this is the marriage she’s been given, she will have to make the best of it. And the best way to protect herself, to protect him and his legitimacy of the rightful King of Westeros, is to truly be an asset. She can’t do that if he’s busy trying to hide something that’s so plainly rumored from her, as well as anyone else, with his sister’s arrival.

But Sansa doesn’t know him as well as she thought, or she’s getting worse at reading him and his reactions. Where she might have expected him to open the lines of communication, like he always had in the past, here he’s…transformed almost into stone. Easily falling along with his guidance into looking up at him, she studies his expression – his features – in an attempt to decipher the newest puzzle he’s put in front of her.

If she’s being honest, it isn’t one she prefers. Suddenly she longs for the lightness that had been between them moments before, and Sansa wonders if she’ll ever see him look at her that way again.

It’s a foolish, young girl’s hope. He’s in love with another woman, and his reaction confirms every rumor she’s heard.

Jaime isn’t answering her question, and she supposes he can’t. She had picked her own words carefully, asking her question between the lines but in a way that in the event they were overheard it seemed like mere planning on her part of what would be proper housing for the sister of the King. But she doesn’t know what to make the answer of her question because it isn’t a directive on where Cersei Baratheon should be for the length of her stay.

Unless it is- and he doesn’t want to arise suspicion by moving her closer to him.

Sansa swallows and nods, her mask breaking for a second, a heartbeat really, before she’s managed to wrangle it back into place. “Whichever you prefer, Your Grace. I can make the arrangements anytime. I-” She has to look away, focus on something else – anything other than the way he’s looking at her now in order to retain composure. “All I ask is for your discretion.”

 

 

Even after so long together—two years of time he’d demanded, to give the girl time to grow, to allow her the rest of her childhood, to allow them to learn each other before forcing a marriage on her—every day he wonders if he’ll ever be confident in his knowledge of the woman before him. Will he ever truly comprehend the way her mind works? It’s no strength of his, dealing with  _ people.  _ How he’s been dealt the most peaceful years of the kingdoms since the dawn of the Mad King’s reign, he doesn’t know. His strengths lie on the battlefield, commanding armies, and yet he’s had little reason to do so in nearly fifteen years. Since Cersei’s betrothal soothed the wounded egos of the Baratheons, in fact. A rather tidy solution, much to Jaime’s chagrin. 

Sansa though, Jaime had watched her hone her natural instincts over the past two years. He doesn’t understand people, cannot intuit their motivations and desires the way she can, but that doesn’t mean he tries any less, at least with her. She fascinates him, this woman who could very well give Varys a run for his money, this woman who took down Littlefinger at the tender age of sixteen. She commands respect already, a respect he has had to fight tooth and nail for, and he’s never begrudged her that. 

He’s also never been on the receiving end of her scrutiny, at least not that he’s aware of. 

Her words are so gently delivered, so diplomatic in formulation when their meaning is so lethal.  _ She knows.  _ His face flames, and his expression tightens minutely. It’s the only outward indication of his panic, but she must see through him.  _ She knows, she knows.  _

He forces himself to breathe, to  _ think _ before he speaks.  _ All I ask is your discretion.  _

By the Gods, that’s almost worse, he thinks. She’ll look the other way—she must think she has no choice, seeing as he’s king. It’s almost laughable. For a moment, he’s overwhelmed with images of the kind of schemes Cersei would put into motion in Sansa’s place, and feels nauseated. If Sansa ever realizes the power she holds in her hands… Well, Jaime is aware who would make the better monarch. He supposes should she find her ambition too much to control, he can hardly begrudge her taking advantage of his youthful idiocy. 

“I may be a fool, Lady Stark, but I am a man of honor,” he says, words quiet, but steely. He is shaken, untenably so, and it is clear in his voice. “They once called me oathbreaker, but I assure you, when I give you my vow, there will not be a man—or woman—in this realm or any other that will sway me from them.”  _ From you. _ Does she realize it yet? How fond he’s grown of her? How attached he is to the idea of her standing at his side? He does not love her, it’s true, but he doesn’t love Cersei either, not anymore. He could come to love Sansa, he knows. It’s dangerous, and foolhardy, but no less true for it. He could come to love Sansa Stark, and she could come to want him dead. 

The Stranger has always loved to toy with him. 

 

 

She’s such an idiot -  a stupid, foolish, little idiot. A part of Sansa wonders if she has played her cards too soon. No, she quickly reasons. It needed to be done sooner rather than later for practical reasons. It doesn’t matter that her heart is racing so noisily she’s sure that anyone who cared to focus could hear. Even if the knowledge that her betrothed would share his bed with another woman, his sister, stung on a personal level – she would be his Queen.  _ The _ Queen. How she handled this in her own bedchamber was one thing. If she needed to hold and present herself in a certain way, to strength his hold…

It felt like a mantra in her head, something she just kept repeating over and over until Sansa was sure she could believe it. That it didn’t matter what he did – he was a King. That somehow it hurt less dealing with it up front rather than blindly guessing and letting the idle gossip, comments, and looks fester.

She has to harden herself- dig deep and find some of the infamous Stark steel that’s somewhere inside her beneath all of the Tully.

Lost in the action and thought of it- she almost misses the way in which Jaime is handling himself. She’s surprised him- but that isn’t exactly news to her. Sansa knows that she isn’t expected to know anything of this, and she certainly isn’t expected to bring it up in passing conversation as they take a stroll through the keep’s gardens.

No, it’s the panic in his  _ eyes _ that surprises Sansa. What is it that he expects her to do with this knowledge? Surely he must know, he must realize that this isn’t to  _ hurt  _ him. If it was a conversation that could have been avoided, or handled in a more delicate or different manner all together she would have chosen that route. But with the wedding rapidly approaching and Cersei’s no longer impending arrival, time had not been on their side, and the conversation had gone from looming to necessary.

She wants to interrupt him, nearly does, before her manners take over and she bites her tongue to let Jaime finish. This time it is Sansa who is shocked, as she minds to not gape at him like a trout in Riverrun. His statement, his own pre-vow of sorts, is a strong declaration. It’s one he doesn’t owe her or anyone, and this time her breath catches in a way that has nothing to do with nerves.

But they are pretty words, and Kings Landing has taught her a lot about them.

“I don’t believe you to be a fool, or a man without honor, Your Grace.” Her words are honest, perhaps more honest than Sansa had intended to be, but her hand moves to rest over his which still has a firm grip on her own. “I’m loyal to you, and  _ only you _ , Jaime.”

 

 

They’ve long since stopped walking, but Jaime steps closer anyway. The thought that she might doubt him in this, it’s untenable and he  _ has to make her understand.  _ He doesn’t  _ know _ how he feels about Cersei, beyond the fact that whatever passion once lay between them has long since faded, but he knows that Sansa is meant to be his Queen, and he won’t risk that for anything. There’s no one else he’d have at his side. 

He hears what she’s saying, what she’s offering, and he’s grateful. Perhaps a bit relieved, but she has to know it goes both ways, hasn’t she? “Speak to me as husband and wife, not as your king... _ please _ ,” he all but begs. But even then, it’s not enough. He doesn’t quite know how to say what he wants. He wants her to not be afraid of him, of censure, of consequences. He wants her to feel like she can call him on his follies. He wants her to be his partner, in all things. Perhaps that’s simply expecting too much. He’s never been married before, but he had always thought that was how it was supposed to work, how the  _ real _ marriages worked. Not the farce of Aerys and Rhaella, or Rhaegar and Elia. But the way the smallfolk spoke of his own parents, the stories his aunt Genna used to tell them.  _ Partnership.  _

“This isn’t a test, Sansa. I don’t… your loyalty is not in question, I promise you. But you don’t owe me this. Not as your husband, or as your King. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t ask that of you. Cersei and I…” He trails off, looking fiercely in the direction of somewhere-beyond-her-shoulder, for he cannot meet her eyes, not now. “The rumors are true,” he whispers. His face is red and he’s never felt like less of a king, not even when he stood over the body of Aerys Targaryen holding a bloody sword. “They’re all true, Sansa, or— they were true. Not since, not since she married Stannis, but—” He breaks off realizing he’s trying to dig himself out of a bottomless hole, trying to put out a fire with oil instead of water. 

The damage is done. All he has left is—

“I never wanted her for a Queen.”

 

 

He steps closer and she doesn’t take a step back. The confirmation of rumors doesn’t change much, after all, she had already known. But there’s a history of care and maybe admiration for the man that is the King of all of the kingdoms in Westeros, and that hasn’t disappeared with this. Sansa can’t pause to wonder about what her mother would have thought of her thoughts. It doesn’t matter, and she meant what she had said. Jaime has earned his respect, and she would help the North come to see it.

But Sansa doesn’t know what to do with his latest request, or how to give him what he wants. She’s never been a lady-wife before, and both the Lord and Lady of Winterfell – while a formidable pair – had never had serious conversations in front of their children if it could be helped. She wants to tease, to somehow lighten the mood by reminding him that it’s impossible, as they would not be husband and wife until the next week, but she doesn’t have to speculate about how well that would go over. Not when the King seems to need this from her. Not when it would help, and when she  _ wants  _ it, more than she had known. So, Sansa nods, her left hand coming to rest on his right arm.

“Jaime.” She speaks quickly, eyes darting across the grounds of the readily seen gardens to double check they are still alone. She wishes Shae were close by- if only so they could communicate through looks to make sure no one was around to hear. “Don’t,” her voice is a firm whisper, because although she can’t see anyone around them there is no way to guarantee it. And with Varys little birds fluttering around it would be only a matter of time before someone knew something. He’s putting himself in danger, if partially to assure her and address hurt feelings, and she wants to tell him it’s not worth it. “Please don’t, not here.”

Looking up she seeks his gaze, not avoiding or ducking from view as Sansa takes her time to make sure he knows why. This is to protect him, and if he wishes to go into this further – to provide any more details- he can but  _ not here. _ Not where they’re vulnerable.

She also finds that she really doesn’t want to know anything further than what she already does.

“We don’t always choose who we love.” Her voice is barely a whisper, and Sansa takes a moment to realize that she’s spoken her thoughts aloud – and her cheeks flush.

“Well, as it turns out, it seems you’ve been saddled with me.” This time she  _ is  _ teasing, and she breaks into a much lighter smile when she tilts her head to recapture his attention. But he’s asked her to speak to him as a wife would, and Sansa feels compelled to try. “But I do want to marry  _ you _ , Jaime. Tests, loyalty, all things aside, please trust that.”

 

 

She’s seen only eighteen name days, and Sansa’s already wise beyond  _ his _ years, let alone her own. He had hardly expected much of anything from their union, but for a diplomatic merger, and greater control of the North. He hadn’t expected to find in her an advisor, a guiding light. Yet another gift she will bestow upon him, and all he has to give her in answer is treachery and incest. 

He bows his head in answer, and takes a step back. He doubts closeness is desired at this point. Silence stretches between them and he finally dares a glance up, only to feel shock course through him at the realization she’s awaiting him to return her gaze. Her gaze is troubled, there is no disguising that, but he doesn’t see anger, not even disgust. 

How can he have been granted such a boon? What must he give in payment for such a gift as Sansa Stark?

“I chose to love her from afar,” he whispers, because it  _ had  _ been a choice. An active one. He needs her to know that. “A long time ago I chose that.”  _ I’ve since chosen to love someone else,  _ he wants to say, but cannot. He can’t stain those word’s with Cersei’s touch. 

“And now I’ve  _ chosen _ you as my Queen, Sansa. I’ve not been  _ saddled  _ with you,” he says with a frustrated laugh. “You aren’t a burden to me. I won’t marry you having you think that,  _ please. _ ” They’ve both come to the same conclusion, it seems, and yet the air still feels fraught. It doesn’t  _ feel _ resolved. Perhaps Cersei’s touch cannot be so easily erased. “I  _ do _ trust you.” More than was logical, perhaps. It wasn’t the question that needed answering. As far as he was concerned, his trust was a given. It was not  _ his _ trust in question here, and yet asking her for hers seemed immeasurably cruel. 

 

 

For the time being Sansa remains silent and gives her betrothed a moment to catch his breath, collect his thoughts. The week before the royal wedding is shaping up to be an eventful one, and Sansa has no doubt that rumors of Cersei Baratheon’s behavior upon her arrival has likely already flown through the grounds of the Red Keep, due to no small part of the fast-paced servant’s tunnels and quarters.

How they respond to this will be pivotal, the eighteen-year-old lady thinks to herself as she forces herself to practice some of that patience she’s been taught all about. She’s faced adversity alongside him before, and it’s not that Sansa doesn’t believe that they’re more than capable. But this feels different somehow, more personal.

Which doesn’t excuse her behavior or how she needs to deal with it. Perhaps that’s why she doesn’t regret bringing up the rumor, even if it’s caused Jaime some distress and discomfort.

Briefly she wonders if Jaime knows that he’s speaking about his love for his sister as if he’s left it in the past. It shouldn’t make her chest constrict the way it does, and Sansa tries to ignore it. Whether Jaime still chooses to love his sister or not isn’t her business. That’s what the voice that sounds oddly like her mother directs her, but Gods does she want him to choose to love her.

She must be an open book, because just as soon as she’s thought it, Jaime’s mentioning that he has chosen her for  _ something _ . “I’ll concede, Your Grace,” Sansa tries to swallow her smile but is sure that she’s failed miserably. “I’m not a burden.” They’ve been stagnant for awhile and after a moment of letting his next confession settle in Sansa’s reaching out for his hand to give it a small squeeze before she’s wrapping both of her arms around his. “I shall strive to never give you cause to regret that trust. Let’s keep walking, Jaime, please. We have a feast to get to, and I’m determined that we  **_both_ ** will enjoy ourselves.”

Both because they should, but also because Sansa will not give Cersei the satisfaction of fracturing their united front.

 

 

It’s almost too much to believe, the goodness she carries in her heart. Having grown up with Cersei, with Tywin for a father, he’s all too familiar with the machinations of the iron throne.  Had he not spent the past two years watching the girl he’d betrothed blossom into the woman he’d marry, he might’ve been afraid. 

He isn’t. 

She squeezes his hand, and then takes his arm, not in the genteel way that is the correct etiquette for young maidens, but nearly an embrace, or as close as is proper in such a proper setting. Perhaps even a bit closer. He takes a deep breath, and sets his hand atop hers. It is not settled between them, Cersei will never allow herself to be brushed off so easily. It is a test they must endure together, when it comes. 

Her answer doesn’t extend her trust back to him, but perhaps that’s not unexpected, with what he just revealed to her. It stings, but in a superficial way. He is ready to earn her trust, and they shall have years together for him to do so. They only need to make it to the wedding, and then they have a life of time to work with. 

“Let us feast then, this one time, in honor of my brother-in-law and his wife, and then never again shall we let her darken our minds.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a snapshot of our King Jaime verse, more of which you can find on tumblr, along with others! Find us at kngslcyer & lttledcve on tumblr!


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